Seraph 27 Zero
by Jir0
Summary: He didn't want to go beyond the Walls. Never again. Yet here he was. Very far out of his comfort zone. Seraph 27 Zero is a thrilling Destiny story, a legend of blood, fear, and redemption. When a mysterious stranger contacts an elite Hunter fireteam and a solitary Titan, the adventure of a lifetime ensues when the opposing parties embark on risky mission to save a fallen Guardian.
1. Chapter 1 --- Prelude

Prelude

Silence. No wind. No motion. No life. Just… silence. The desert of gray was empty, even the stars seeming dim. The other side of the hill was a different story, but on the side facing away from Earth… nothing. Just silence.

The warrior sat, legs crossed, gun in hand but with their finger off the trigger. Their gray cloak wrapped around them so entirely that even the eight glowing eyes of their mask were barely discernable. Otherwise, to the wandering eye, the warrior was merely another lump on the already uneven lunar surface.

Then they stood, slung the rifle onto their back, and walked up to the crest of the rocky hill. Upon reaching the peak they could see for miles. It was a once glorious sight now degraded, consumed by the Darkness.

Skeletons of mighty structures stood, wavering at times, unsure of whether to keep standing or fall and let it be over with. One slim tower in particular was adamant about staying upright, refusing to crumble despite the ages of rust wearing at it. A sea of rocks and gray dust stretched out to the horizon, rippling as water might, disturbed only by the foundations of concrete and metal that seemed inconveniently placed. On the horizon a mountain range grew, though not spectacular in many ways. There were, however, two peaks that reached to one another across a colossal gap in which the Hellmouth sat.

Looking at that place from the parallax which the warrior did made the moon appear empty, void of life and nearly all signs of it. There were the rusting warehouses and towers, sure, but those could have been built by the aliens for it mattered. The only true sign that anyone had been to the moon these past few centuries were the footprints, indentations made and preserved with such perfection that it was hard to tell the difference between one made a week or an eon ago.

But one particular set of prints were fresh, made just hours before by the warrior that stood over them now. The warrior turned their eyes from the view of the mountains to the prints at their feet. They reached up under their hood and pressed two fingers to the side of their helmet, to their communications device.

"Preparations are in order. Sending the message now."


	2. Chapter 2 --- Hijacked

The Tower. The center of human civilization. The base of Vanguard activities. The hub of Guardian collectivism. It was a white spire slicing through the blue sky, as much a sign of hope as the Traveler itself. The City, the Walls, and the Guardians, all kept together by the legendary Tower.

Ships by the dozen flew by, docking and deporting from the hangers. Ghosts by the hundreds milled about, accompanying their comrades or going out to find their own. Guardians by the handful did anything and everything everywhere, both expected and not.

Some Guardians boasted their guns, or bought them to Banshee-44. Others summoned their Ghosts and transferred Glimmer. Yet others communed with Master Rahool or the Vanguard Heads. (And quite a few were dancing, for no apparent reason.)

Yes, everyone everywhere was doing something at the Tower.

Except for one.

The Guardian sat alone at the cafeteria table, his food neglected, his duties complete. The whole left side of the cafeteria was full, every table occupied by Hunters or Warlocks or a mix of both. One table was claimed by the Grimm, a squadron of Titans famous for their Crucible status. Yet this one Guardian was completely alone, and at the moment he preferred it that way.

With his helmet removed, his black hair and deep eyes were visible, as was the scar above his left eyebrow. He didn't mind that people saw that scar, but he hid the ones on his hands. He was always self-conscious whenever he took his gauntlets off; maybe that's why he crossed his arms so often, as he did now.

He was rather diminutive in stature, considering he was a Titan, but his size did not take away from his strength or rank. As a member of the Stoneborn, he was tasked with patrolling the Walls day after day, and he did this task diligently. His demeanor, while cold, was always loyal; his attitude, while uptight, was always efficient.

His name was Hal Gerick. He never went beyond the Walls. His ship was somewhere in the deep recesses of the hanger, unused and probably rusted to a scrapheap. He wasn't good at making friends, and didn't much see the value in them. Allies had value, friends cajoled you into mistakes and doing crap. Hal Gerick was a man of few words. He thought himself a man of action, and strategy, but never of words. It's why he had never joined a fireteam; he wasn't good at communicating.

But just because he didn't go beyond the Walls didn't mean he didn't know what was out there. He knew. He knew better than most. The Hunters made fun of him for being afraid, but if they saw what he had seen, they would curl up with a pistol and never go beyond the Walls ever again. It was a matter only experience could express.

Not all the scars on his hands had been caused by repairing the Walls.

But Hal wasn't thinking about the scars, or the Walls. He wasn't thinking about much at all, except for what he could do that afternoon. He didn't have duty for the rest of the day. Having the day off, most would enjoy their freedom, but Hal was chained to his work, devoted to it. His blood had gone into those Walls.

Hal sighed, deeply, and turned to his food. It was lukewarm, but he didn't mind. Few things cut though his armor, physically or otherwise.

Three Hunters entered the room from behind Hal. They stopped in the middle of the room and put out their hands. Their Ghosts materialized, hovering above their palms, and they began communicating with one another.

Hal recognized the Hunters. It was Malcolm Wolf, Vesta Reacher, and Slade Destine, better known as the Seraphim. The Seraphim were a fireteam that ran Vanguard Strikes and personal missions depending on their mood. They spent most of their time out in the wilderness, often jumping between the Tower, the Cosmodrome, and Mars. Hunters normally did things alone, but the three of them were inseparable. They were one of the few Hunter fireteams, and certainly the best. Each one of them were incredible, but together they were unstoppable.

Malcolm Wolf, standing to the left, was a professional sniper. He was known for using the Astral Scythe, but occasionally switched to the Longbow Synthesis. He hardly ever showed his face, usually hiding behind his mask of woven silver. His high collar, edged in crimson, came up to his cheekbones, and his large left shoulder plate pushed back his long, ankle-length cloak. His hood was black, yet the cloak itself was crimson, but both were considerably ragged. His vambraces, shoulder plate, and boots were formed of large metal bands wrapped around one another. It was a unique design, none that anyone else had. Wolf's armor was the legendary Fenrir's Fangs.

Vesta Reacher, on the right, was one of a kind. She was the female of the group, but had as much courage as her two companions combined. And she was smart, scarily so. The few times she had been in the Crucible she had obliterated the enemy, and scared the hell out of them as well. On one occasion, the opposing team had surrendered, and Vesta had been outnumbered then. No one messed with Vesta. And her appearance only helped her reputation.

Wearing a mask of gold with iron carvings, a large single horn protruded from her forehead. A boxy but beautiful shoulder piece sat strapped to her. The blue-gray robes under her silver armor were always clean and well kept, until she started playing dirty. Her breastplate extended to cover her entire torso, something most Hunters didn't have, and her belt was packed with extra ammo and who knows what. Only padded gloves providing any kind of defense for her arms, and her knee-high boots, exquisitely made, made no noise when she moved. But her cloak, oh her cloak… it seemed woven of gold, and a mesmerizing pattern covered the whole of it. It slanted, concealing most of her left side, and any weapons she doubtlessly hid under there. It was the Shinarian King armor, handed down to her directly from her mentor, the offspring of one of Takenome's Rangers.

And then Slade. Slade Destine led the Seraphim, and had every right to. His features imposing, Slade was among the best Hunters in the system. Before officially forming the Seraphim, he had singlehandedly killed Kalisz, an Elder Captain leading an attack against the City. Slade hadn't used any weapons save his own two hands. Since then he had excelled in every task set before him. There were rumors he had even trained under Osiris for a few years. Slade had mastered the Void, and was now considered for becoming the next head of the Hunter Vanguard.

Slade's outfit was very select, as practical as it was stylish. Seemingly made of bronze and red copper, his greaves and vambraces were thick and effective. His green robes, edged in silver, helped him blend into forests and jungles, but was dark enough that when he hid in the wastelands of the Cosmodrome he was still indistinguishable. His green cloak split in two at the waist, and ended at mid shin. His helmet looked almost steampunk with its gold and red coloring, and two massive sockets covered by a simple visor replaced his eyes. A beautiful breastplate, forged from the head of a Vex Goblin, exaggerated his already powerful muscles, and his red belt was stocked with as much ammo and gadgets as Vesta. The outfit seemed very Warlock inspired, furthering the assumption he was once apprenticed to Osiris. The armor was the fabled Phalcon-Skism, which he had spent decades steadily assembling.

Hal took in all the details of the Hunters in seconds, and resumed eating. He had seen them before, but only once or twice. They were more often spoken of then seen.

Sunlight streamed in from the open doors ahead of Hal. It was a powerful light, making even the UVs above seem dim. Outside Guardians mulled about, chattering and boasting. A shadow passed briefly overhead, a ship flying to dock. Master Rahool walked by, adjusting something on his touchpad. Strange, he wasn't usually on this level. But neither was Hal, who spent most of his time on the Walls or in the training center.

And then something happened. Clouds cast shadows beyond the doors, and the UV lights flickered. Then with a crash everything fell apart. The lights went out, a second later the alarms went off, and then emergency lights splashed red on everything. Suddenly the sun outside didn't seem so bright.

The stories ceased, the eating stopped, everything came to a screeching halt. Everyone looked around, startled but not concerned. The Ghosts of the Seraphim vanished, immaterializing immediately. Hal's Ghost, however, appeared in a blink of light and looked around.

"Jordan," Hal said, "What's going on?"

"I don't know," the Ghost replied. "I've never… wait, this is different. The Tower isn't under attack, it's been hijacked."

"Hijacked?" Hal asked. He leaned closer and cocked his head. "What do you mean?" Hal was speaking in his tactical voice, the tone he always used when there was a situation on hand.

"The transmissions. Every channel is offline or isolated. There's no communication between the Tower and other Guardians, or even the City." Jordan floated up, flashed a light in every direction. He was doing a thorough scan of the area. "I'm going to find an access panel."

As Jordan flew off Hal noticed the Seraphim Squadron talking. Then Slade's hand thrust out and his Ghost appeared. A dozen others did the same, trying to grasp the situation. Even if it was a viral or radio attack the lights on this level shouldn't have been out, and who could even launch such an attack? Certainly not the Hive, but the Fallen? They had radio coms, but their last radio scuffle had been them attempting to find Rasputin. Could they be doing this now?

Jordan came flying back frantically. "There's an incoming transmission, but only on one channel, and it's isolated." Jordan twisted a bit and then projected the audio quietly.

"Attention… Attention…The…"

Interference cut the next word off. The voice was deep, like Hal's, and the message wasn't coming in well.

"Attention… These words are meant for Hal Gerick… and the Seraphim S… I've chosen you… There is an enemy rising, one of your make… you few exhibit what capabilities I require… Do not tell anyone else about this message, it is meant for you… and you only… Come alone to the European Dead Zone now… Your Light is about to go out… I can save you…"

The transmission ended with a burst of static. The red light vanished and the sun flooded back into the room. The lights flickered on overhead. Nobody did anything but sit and stare, wondering-

"What the hell just happened?" a Hunter shouted.

"Microburst of solar energy," a Warlock suggested. "Or maybe a radio override from beyond the Walls."

The Grimm started murmuring and quipping at one another, opinions clashing.

The doors on the far end of the room crashed open and two powerful figures marched in. The first was Andal Brask, the Commander of the Hunter Vanguard. His black eyes and dark hair clashed with his white skin, and a short but unkempt beard emphasized his strong jaw. His bright armor and brown worn robes blended, his cloak swept back to reveal his full outfit. His cloak was unique, long and black with red numerals on either side of the hood.

Behind the warrior trailed Ikora Rey, the young Vanguard Commander of the Warlocks. Her silver armor gleamed like her shaved head, and her purple robes danced around inquisitively like her eyes. Around her upper arm shone a transparent white hologram, projected by her armband.

"Quiet down," Brask shouted. "I said quiet down!"

"What was that?" A Warlock asked. "Brask? Rey? What just happened?"

"It was a brief radio shutdown," Brask explained. "The channels were overwhelmed and we had a system malfunction. That's all, all right? Nothing to freak out about."

Most people seemed contented by this explanation. The few Warlocks who weren't went to Ikora for a more in-depth answer. But no one suspected anything more, nobody heard what Hal had heard. Brask eventually left to spread word about what had happened, and the cafeteria settled down again.

Hal wasn't sure what to do. He certainly wasn't going to the European Dead Zone, no one would come with him. But what else? Should he go to Commander Zavala and tell him about the transmission? Should he tell anyone? Or should he just ignore it and go on as if it had never happened?

As Hal sat, hunched over his mostly empty plate, three figures approached from the left. The Seraphim Squadron stood directly above him, almost as intimidating as a Titan fireteam would be. The Guardians stared solidly at one another for several seconds.

"What are you going to do about it?" Slade Destine asked.

"Do about what?" Hal replied.

"The message."

Hal suddenly remembered a part of the transmission. It had been meant for him and the Seraph Squad. They were in on it.

Then Hal thought, _That is the stupidest decision anyone could ever make_. Who in their right mind would recruit a fireteam of Hunters and a Titan, who didn't know each other, to do a job? Anyone who knew anything about the Guardians knew that pairing three Hunters and a lone Titan together was a recipe for disaster. Hal was liking the situation less and less.

Slade reached up and grabbed either side of his helmet. He twisted, and it came off with a click. Slade dropped the helm onto the table at Hal's elbow. Slade Destine was a handsome man, with short brown hair and high cheekbones. A patch of stubble grew under his chin, and his nose was rather thin and had been broken once. His thick brow gave his eyes an intelligent feel, but the eyes themselves screamed of his ferocity and skill. The only really unusual thing was a scar, three inches long, running from the bottom of his left ear to his chin.

"So, what are you going to do about it?" he asked again.

"Nothing." Hal said matter-of-factly.

"You're just going to ignore it?"

"Why should I acknowledge it? Whoever sent that message gave us no information about himself or his objective. It could be a trap or ambush. I, for one, am just fine atop the Walls, and there isn't any reason I can see that could drive me out into the middle of nowhere."

"He said our Light was going out," Malcolm Wolf stated.

"And you believe that?"

"Are you willing to take the chance he's correct?"

Hal was at a loss for words, and so, like most Titans, he chose to lose his temper as well. "I don't have time for this," he said, getting up. "That message should be brought to the Vanguard, one of their fireteams, or left well enough alone. This sounds like a wild panther hunt, and I will not be a part of it."

Hal turned to leave but Slade grabbed his hand. Hal turned back. The mere thought of grabbing an angry Titan… Slade seemed to have a death wish.

"Those are old scars." Slade said. Hal paused. Slade continued. "Those weren't made from building the Walls, or running a mission. Your Ghost can't heal those scars, or he won't."

Hal tore his hand away. "You get out of my sight or I will pulverize you."

"Why are you here, Hal Gerick?" Slade's stare was steady, demanded contact.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you come to the City? Why did you first lay eyes on those Walls? Was it because they called you? Did the City call you? Don't lie to me."

"Yes, they called. They called to all of us. I saw gaps and I hurried to help fix them."

"But you didn't hurry fast enough, did you?"

Hal didn't reply.

"Right now, someone is calling you. They are calling you, Hal Gerick. And they're calling me, and Wolf, and Reach. And in my experience, when someone calls, they need help. So, are you going to take a risk and hope for reward, or are you just going to sit behind your Walls and wait until you regret your decision?"

Hal's eyes darted every which way, as if the words he wanted to speak were hidden somewhere in the room. But his throat was dry, parched by silence.

"Are you going to help? Or is someone else going to end up with scars on their hands?"

Slade let go. He gave Hal one more penetrating stare before snatching his helmet up and walking away, Malcolm and Vesta close behind. They exited the cafeteria, and while dozens of others sat around, Hal suddenly felt very alone.


	3. Chapter 3 --- Departure

Chapter 3 - Departure

Slade ran his hand over the polymer aluminum hull of his Phaeton-class jumpship. The negative gray exterior and sleek jet-like design made it a perfect stealth flyer, undetectable by most any radar or material scans. It was a Hunter's dream ship, and Slade had never regretted paying the heap of Glimmer it had cost to salvage and upgrade the vehicle.

"Slade," a voice called. Slade pivoted on his heel and was, admittedly, somewhat surprised to find Hal Gerick striding toward him.

"Gerick," the Hunter replied simply, suspecting they weren't quite on a first name basis.

"I've changed my mind," the Titan said.

Slade's eyebrows raised a half centimeter. Hal's words brought even more surprise than his presence. "Changed your mind?"

"I'll come with your team to the EDZ," he said. "There's probably nothing there and I'll just lose a day's salary."

"And if there is something?"

"There isn't."

Slade turned back to his ship.

Hal spoke. "But if there is, we'll deal with it."

Slade glanced back at Hal's hands, now concealed by gauntlets. "Well, I'm glad you came around."

Hal changed the subject. "When're you leaving?"

"Soon. We're heading over to the Vaults first to pick up some gear. Our last stand on Mars depleted more resources than we anticipated."

"That a Phaeton-class?" Hal gestured to the ship.

"Yep. An LRv2 Javelin. Malcolm's got an AX19 Spindle Demon; he's all about performance."

"And Vesta?"

"NS66 Cloud Errant. Sometimes takes an LRv3, though. What do you fly?"

"I don't," the Titan admitted. "I see them coming in all the time from the Walls, but… well, I have an Atalanta's Hunt."

"That's a nice one."

"Not when it's been rusting in the back of the port for eternity."

"See if Holiday can clean it up a bit while we're at the Vaults. Doesn't need to look pretty, just needs to fly."

As several Frames scraped the rust off Hal's ship, the Hunters and Titan trekked to the underbelly of the Tower, to the legendary Vaults. Any single compartment contained a treasure trove of Titan weaponry, Hunter collections or Warlock research. The Seraphim owned a huge storage area, which seemed impractical to Hal given how rarely they visited the Tower. Each of them grabbed handfuls of ammo and a half-dozen guns, which their Ghosts carried for them. They were Hunters, after all, and they were preparing for anything and everything.

Hal unlocked his vault and disappeared inside. He only occasionally threw something in, but never took anything out. Hal emerged carrying everything he thought he would need, and waited as Jordan wordlessly began dematerializing his selected equipment. The Seraphim stared at him with something akin to awe.

"Where'd you get all that?" Malcolm said, brow furrowed, mouth somewhat agape.

"Various places," Hal answered.

"How'd you afford it?" Vesta asked.

"I worked every single weekday for thirty years atop the Walls and didn't waste my glimmer on drinks and trinkets. It's amazing what thinking conservatively does."

Jordan finished storing Hal's gear.

"All right then," Slade said. "Let's move."


	4. Dear Reader

Dear Reader…

Dear reader,

I… have to apologize. Yes, apologize. I know that many people have been reading, enjoying, and looking forward to the next installation of Seraph 27 Zero, and, in short, I really haven't delivered. I've failed. Rather miserably, actually.

For starters, making my readers wait this long for the next chapter, or even an update, is unreasonable. Unacceptable. When my friend Furious Titaness convinced me to begin writing and sharing fanfiction, specifically for Destiny, there were a few criteria that I knew I needed to meet in order to make the whole Fanfiction thing even work. One of those criteria was to post content regularly. Yes, you have my permission to laugh. It has been weeks, probably closer to months, since my last chapter, update or even notification on this site, much less this story. I've always striven to make my story match my medium, so doing Fanfiction I thought it'd be pretty cool to create and share stories in an episodic format. That fell flat on its face. I ran into far too many speedbumps with the story, obstructing my progress, and my distribution rate decreased more and more until it completely and utterly stopped.

Now yes, I do become drastically busier after the summer ends, but that's little excuse considering what I was getting myself into. I knew what I was getting into, and I messed up anyway. And so, for that, I need to apologize.

But, the real reason I'm writing this to you, the true purpose of this apology, is not to address my absence on this platform.

My dear reader… I'm sorry for writing bad stories.

When I set out to write Fanfiction, the greatest thing I wanted to do was display my talent, my writing abilities. I wanted to be an example to budding writers on how to craft a narrative, how to pace a story, how to create compelling characters, how to emotionally invest an audience in the story they're trying to tell. More than that, I quite simply wanted to write a good story that people would want to read. And… I failed.

Seraph 27 Zero has been an abysmal failure, a dumpster fire, if you will. I had an idea that I wanted to develop, but in my laziness and disrespect for my audience I decided to forgo proper development and just _write_. Thing is, I know that when I do that I'm going to run into walls and mess everything up. And that's exactly what I did. The story was so incomplete and incomprehensible that I as the author would come upon sections of the story and have to stop writing because I had no idea where I wanted it to go, what direction I wanted to head. Not only that, but there were some parts of the story that I found boring and refused to invest myself in, and if I as the author found it boring and uninvesting, how much more would you as my reader find it.

No writer should lead their reader into a mess of a story and not warn them. That's why I'm saying this, here, now, instead of trying to grind out one more chapter for the story's sake. This train wreck ends here. I want my readers to respect me, and more importantly to enjoy the stories I write, and a writer with bad stories is simply a bad writer.

I messed up. I failed. And I'm sorry.

But an apology on its own, in this instance, is worth very little. That's why I'm going to fix this. From now on, I'm going to plan my plots, construct my characters, and not neglect my narratives. Simply put, I'm going to write good stories. That is my promise to you, my dear reader. And even if only one person reads this, if only one person cares, then know that I am doing this for you. For if there was only one person in the world who wanted to read my stories, then I would keep writing them just for you.

For those of you wondering, no, Seraph 27 Zero is not cancelled. It stumbled, and fell, but it's not down. There's still a good story there, somewhere. And I'm going to find it. I'm going to build the narrative from the ground up, develop it properly this time, and when it releases again, in a few months, a few years, hopefully you readers will find it a story worth reading.

In the meantime, I have a host of other fanfiction stories planned. And yes, most of them are Destiny. And I'm making sure I'm doing them _right_ this time. No half-baked concepts or bad executions. I'm going to write good stories. Great stories. That's a promise.

So until the pen of my hand meets the sword of your gaze, dear reader, I will wish you health and happiness, and if fate decides to hold that from you, just know that I'm going to keep working to give it to you anyway.

Sincerely,

Jir0


End file.
